


Some Nights

by pretty_mr_sanders (shipit)



Category: Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Anxiety is kinda a pet thing, Eating Disorders, Guard!Roman, Insomnia, M/M, Mafia Boss!Patton, Nightmares, Oneshot, Trans!Logan, it's based off of one of my aus, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:08:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipit/pseuds/pretty_mr_sanders
Summary: Some nights are worse than others (Based on my mafia!au on tumblr)





	Some Nights

Some nights are worse than others.

Logan looks into the mirror at the dark bags beneath his eyes and behind his thick black glasses. He hasn’t slept in two days, showered in three. His head won’t shut up long enough for him to look at the  ~~fat ugly wrong~~  body beneath his clothes or allow him any  ~~undeserved unneeded~~ sleep. Slowly, he manages to lift his shirt and examine the patterns on his pale skin that hasn’t seen the sun in too long. His stomach boasts an ugly pink scar, puckered and raised and a reminder of the only time he failed Patton. Above it are two more scars, symmetrical and faded into faint lines. His chest is flat, at least. The lights in his bathroom cast shadows from his ribs  ~~that he doesn’t think he can see~~  onto his  ~~chubby~~  stomach in neat little bars. His own reflection makes him sick and he turns away, shirt dropping back down. The pajama pants that used to fit are a little loose, which is the one good thing he can notice at the moment. He weighs himself  ~~again~~  on the scale and the numbers register 139.6 in their  ~~mocking~~  electric green screen. He wishes they were  ~~smaller~~  different. Today, he had two cups of  ~~rich~~  coffee, an apple, and  ~~buttered~~ toast. No toast tomorrow. He should go cut up some food for the morning so he isn’t tempted to eat more when he grabs his meal of the day.

Ann pulls his duvet tighter, tighter, tighter around himself, and wonders if maybe sleep will come easier if the lights are off. It won’t, he knows that, because the dark holds too many terrifying, terrifying, terrifying possibilities for him to even shut his eyes, but it’s easier to pretend the lights are the problem. If he can haul himself out of bed and turn off the lights, sleep will come, come, come and he will wake up hour later and everything will be okay. But the world is not that simple. He always sleeps better with someone to hold him, he knows, knows, knows that, but he doesn’t want to be a burden, so he doesn’t ask one of the others for the reassurance of arms around his waist, anchoring him to the world and giving him enough peace to at least try and sleep. His heart beat echoes loudly in his ears as he gets up for another mug of decaffeinated tea, praying, praying, praying it’ll put his thoughts to rest. He makes it quickly and adds honey to thicken it and chase away its bitter aftertaste. But when he brings it to his lips, it slips from his fingertips and falls to the floor. Now it’s broken, broken, broken like him and he tries to pick up the pieces. They slice him open and leave blood on the carpet and porcelain, but he doesn’t stop trying, trying, trying to fix it.

Roman walks slowly through the halls, listening to the echo of his footsteps on the tiles in hopes their sound will drown out the screams in his ears and the blood on his conscience. If he looks at the floor, he swears his shoes leave dark red footprints, but when he stops and turns around, there’s nothing. For almost two hours, he’s been pacing to calm his frantic heartbeat that he’s sure fills the room with its persistent thudding. If he stops, he swears he can see as well as hear the people he’s destroyed without a thought, but as long as he keeps moving, there’s nothing. His lungs expand and fill with air that’s too crisp and clinical for the gore these walls have seen. If he tries to imagine where oxygen tasting so filtered comes from, he swears all he sees is hospital beds and bloody sheets, but there’s an undercurrent of smoke and alcohol in the scent of the air that reminds him where he is. There’s the urge to follow their stench and demand a joint or a glass to drown his pain, but he promised himself he would never go back to the drugs that ruined his life, no matter how bad it gets. If he lifts his hand to his face, he swears he tastes the pills on his tongue again, but when he swallows, it’s empty of his release.

Patton steals  _another_  swig of amber whiskey, angry on his tongue and fiery in his throat as it goes down. He nods to himself at the familiar taste and the bubble of warmth it makes in his stomach. Already tonight he’s downed half of his bottle, chasing away the memories of angry hands on his face and around his neck with liquor.  _Another_. It burns too but he likes it, likes how it reminds him that he’s alive. He wonders if it’s bad that it’s nearly three in the morning and he’s sitting in an empty bath tub with Jack Daniels in one hand, an old diamond ring in the other. It’s usually on his finger, but he’s decided that at the moment, he wants its sharp edges to cut into his palm and make him pay for what he did to the ring’s original owner.  _Another_. As soon as he’s swallowed it, the bottle slips from his hand and spills, all of the whiskey spiraling down the drain, wasted. Sighing, he gets to his feet and stumbles to go find another bottle.

The kitchen on the third floor reminds Logan of a clinic Patton sent him to when he was nineteen years old he almost reached his goal weight because he thought he was going to die. Everything is silver and white, cold and impersonal, spotless and obsessively organized. It’s easy to locate what he needs- lettuce, a knife, a measuring cup, and a tupperware container. Slowly, he slices the lettuce into delicate pieces and drops them in a measuring cup. Two cups only amount to eighteen calories, and even he can burn that off  ~~and then more if he’s lucky~~. Hopefully his scale will drop down into the 120s, a number he’s been chasing for years but only got down to once. His morning is easy to plan- wake up, drink half a cup of black coffee, eat his thin strips of lettuce, and take an oxy with some water to dull the ache he gets at the base of his skull and in his empty  ~~fat~~  stomach. After that he’ll go for a quick run and then start working.

After managing to clean up the glass, Ann realizes that if he wants tea, he’ll have to go get a new mug. He swallows hard and reaches for flashlight with his painfully, painfully, painfully cut hands. It clicks on and makes a bright beam to cut through the darkness. His smile is little more than a weak upturn of the corners of his lips to express satisfaction in being able to get to the kitchen. The walk is long and his footsteps are too loud, loud, loud on the floor, making him wince because he doesn’t want to wake anyone up in case they get mad. When he gets to the third floor, where the kitchen and guard’s quarters are, the lights are already on, so he turns off his flashlight and lets it dangle at his side. Someone else’s feet are clicking, clicking, clicking on the tile with combat boots and their clunky heels. He raises his flashlight in case it’s someone who intends to hurt, but lowers it when he sees Roman, pacing and watching his feet intently.

Someone else is in the hallway. Roman looks up and sees Ann, shaking like a leaf and lowering what must be a flashlight back to his side. He watches Ann glance toward the kitchen and nods, deciding to accompany him. If he isn’t alone, he swears he can breathe easy, but Ann is at his side and the walls are still suffocating him. The door to the kitchen is cracked open already, revealing Logan inside, popping the lid onto a container. Its contents are a vibrant green and pressed together, much like the other items on the counter: a cutting board, a knife, a measuring cup, and half a head of lettuce. If he walks over to Logan, he swears he’ll take that sharp knife and plunge it into his own chest to atone for his crimes, but he just watches Logan turn on the sink to clean things up. Beside him, Ann clears his throat, making Logan turn around and jump. The gray shirt hanging limply on his body leaves too much to imagination, especially when he filled the shirt out quite nicely a month ago, and was skinny then. If he makes a full meal, he swears he can get Logan to eat, but he knows that Logan will only take a bite and cut out all food for the next twenty four hours as punishment.

Craving a drink, Patton begins his stumbling journey to the kitchen. He puts one foot in front of the other carefully, so as to keep his balance even though the world is tilting around him and his arms are out to his sides to help keep him upright. The wall makes a good steadying force as he steps off of the elevator in search of  _another_  drink to stave off the guilt building in the pit of his stomach and make him forget about all the things he’s done wrong. Upon getting to the kitchen, he realizes that the other three are there, Logan washing dishes, Ann making tea, and Roman pacing aimlessly with his hands in his hair, pulling at it, probably hard enough to hurt. Wordlessly, he searches the cabinets for a fresh bottle and breaks the seal for a drink. It hurts.  _Another_. That one hurts too.  _Another_. They’re all staring at him now, but Ann’s eyes occasionally flick to the bottle. He looks scared. Realizing it’s his fault, Patton looks at the ground.  _Another._  That one doesn’t give him anything but more pain and he sways on his feet. Roman comes and picks him up, sets him on the counter, and takes his bottle away. A glass of water is pressed into his hand instead, and Roman crosses his arms, expression expectant.

The dishes are finished. After drying them and putting them away, Logan stows his lettuce in the fridge and turns his attention to the others. It’s obvious Patton is drunk, and he shouldn’t be happy about that, but it means he won’t see what he made for his  ~~undeserved~~  meal tomorrow. He looks at Roman next, and sees the pain written all over his face. There’s a set to his jaw and clenching of his fists that’s reminiscent of when he becomes too overwhelmed with guilt to lift himself off of the floor when they sit together late at night sometimes, drinking  ~~high calorie~~  tea and, for once, getting along properly. Ann’s eyes are dull and layered with fear and sadness and Logan wants to hold him until he’s okay, but it’ll have to wait for when he doesn’t feel like collapsing. Looking at everyone has brought a certain  ~~weakness~~  exhaustion to his thoughts because they all look so damaged. They’re all hurting.

Ann doesn’t want to be in the same room as Patton when he drinks, drinks, drinks because when he comes searching for another bottle after inevitably dropping the first half way through, it means he’s going to be angry. Violent. Tonight is already not a great one, and he’s wary of making it worse by provoking the drunken rage of the man who swore to always protect him, but uses his loving hands to make handprints when intoxication takes its hold. He looks at Roman for protection and receives a subtle nod. Things will be okay. He continues making his tea, stirring, stirring, stirring to dissolve the honey into his green tea. When his hands curl around the mug, it warms his icy fingers. The drink itself coats his throat in the same warmth as he drinks. Tea is soothing when Ann can’t seem to sleep. Normally by this point, he would be returning to his room to draw intricate patterns all down his thighs, but he doesn’t want to disrupt the quiet, quiet, quiet peace that’s been delicately created between them all.

The walls are closing in on Roman too fast but he ignores it because the others need him right now. He’s nowhere near okay, but he knows his place as last priority. Number one is Ann, who appears ready to faint and collapse on the sterile ground in a heap. If he catches Ann before he can fall, he swears he’ll be able to rest tonight, but when he thinks harder he realizes that sleep is an unachievable feat on a night like this. Under his careful eye, Patton drinks the water and dilutes the whiskey lining his intestines. It won’t completely sober him up, but it might help and that’s all it takes. Logan comes next, but there’s nothing to be done right now. If he could get a full meal into Logan, he swears the man would throw up because his stomach isn’t big enough anymore, but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to at least get something in him. Without thinking, Roman reaches into the pantry and produces a granola bar. He unwraps it to hide the nutrition information before handing it to Logan. He doesn’t have to speak; the implication is obvious. Thin fingers pluck a small bite from the top and pop it into Logan’s mouth to appease him.

The water is cold, too cold and feels odd in Patton’s mouth in contrast of the whiskey’s heat. His fingers itch to grab back the bottle from Roman and drown his pain in another sip. Instead he takes  _another_  dainty sip of water.  _Another_. Slowly, he works his way through the whole glass, and he feels better, but his thoughts are still flirting with lack of inhibition and the grand idea of yelling.  _Another._  His glass is filled to the top again and he drinks it all in a single gulp. Logan extends a hand to him and he takes it, interlacing their cold fingers. It’s much easier to stay upright, he decides, when Logan is unwavering beside him. On his other side, Roman steps forward to hold him up too, and Ann is clinging to Roman’s free arm like it’s all he has in the world right now. Maybe it is. The four of them carefully make their way upstairs, back to where Patton’s room is: the penthouse suite, decked out beyond belief and boasting the largest bed. His is the only one big enough for all of them to comfortably lay together, although they seldom do. First one to collapse onto the mattress is Patton, and then a warm body falls beside him and curls around him.  _Another. Another._  Roman’s somehow managed to hold onto all of them at once, Logan’s face is in Patton’s chest, and Ann is splayed out over all of them. It’s warm, comforting, and everything the night calls for.

Some nights are worse than others; still, they still always have each other.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is coincidentally also pretty-mr-sanders


End file.
